About A Boy
by telemetries
Summary: The feeling of loneliness and anger has settled in, and Draco feels as though he's got no one to turn to, until the friendly approach of a certain redhaired man slowly ends the cycle of hate and starts the birth of something beautiful. One-shot.


**About A Boy **

_Hope is a good thing -- maybe the best thing, and no good thing ever dies._

_- _Stephen King

**i.**

When Draco looked in the mirror, he saw nothing but a pale, horrid imitation of himself, almost like a blemished porcelain doll. It looked fine from a distance, and then once you got a closer look, you started to notice things that were rather off-putting; a hairline crack near the eye, a weak chest. The legs were too skinny. The face was mean.

The heart was dying.

Draco wrought his hands, his brain twisting within his skull, almost like something was wrapping itself around it, squeezing it tight, killing the neurons and replacing them with something poisonous, something that allowed him to continue to think and move but still made him wrong, wrong, _wrong_. Everything -- everything was just _wrong_! And what about that? Just what was he to do about that? Nothing -- he didn't know what to do. His father, his whole _family _was weakening. The Dark Lord was gone, and he was _still _fearing for his life.

Perhaps it was to be expected. The public didn't take too kindly at the mention of his surname these days.

He exhaled heavily, his sigh filling the whole bathroom. He wiped at the mirror as the heated fog from the shower continued to billow around the glass, droplets running down. Draco swiped the glass and avoided looking at himself as he searched for his toothbrush.

**ii. **

Ron was wary whenever he walked past Draco's office, simply because he didn't know how the hell he'd respond to anything today, or any other day. He hated the man, god_damn _he hates him, but they work in the same department and so he has to learn how to deal with it. Besides, if he tried punching anyone ever again, he'd get the sack and that was the last thing he needed right now. His flat was barely affordable.

But as much as he hated him, he pitied him as well, and so Ron decides to sit with him at their lunch break today and he felt like he was in those typical American movies that Hermione liked to watch from time to time, the ones with the one kid that's brave/nice/naive enough to sit with the new student at the lunch tables, their tone and character always innocent and cheery. Only this isn't high school, this isn't America, and they're older now and have too much experience of war to try and be naive about anything.

But Draco isn't awful to him. He offers him a part of his sandwich. They talk about the weather, and about themselves, and what they'd been doing for the past few years since school ended.

Draco was solemn but friendly. Despite his slightly snobbish attitude towards certain things about Muggles and Ron's family, he isn't outwardly nasty. He was only nasty whenever he was working, and Ron chalked that up to stress.

Ron decides that Draco isn't as half-bad as he thought. He had definitely been humbled throughout the years, and that should have comforted Ron, but it didn't. He felt like something was horribly wrong with Draco. He seemed _too_ solemn, and just...sad.

So very sad.

**iii.**

The garden is thriving, thanks to the week's rain, but Draco can't seem to bring himself to care. He's standing on his patio, thinking of Weasley, despite his better judgment, or perhaps his better judgment was merely an old schoolboy grudge that he'd never completely let go of.

But he thought that the feeling might be dissipating, as it's been four months and they've been getting along more and more every day, despite the fact that all they did was make conversation. Just...talk. And that was all.

But talking seemed _enough, _quite honestly, and Draco's head didn't hurt so much anymore; in fact, he found it hurt _less _whenever he was in Weasley's company, and that comforted him in such a way that he felt like he could be open with the former Gryffindor about -- well, about everything. Anything. Draco still had his limits, though. Still held onto his inner walls, keeping a firm grip on the jutting cement from in between the bricks, even though it was clear that they were crumbling and on the verge of tumbling down completely.

Draco wasn't ready to be so exposed to anyone just yet.

He glanced down at his shoes, barely-worn Converse All-Stars that he bought last month without thinking. He'd been in Muggle London on a discreet business trip and had impulsively walked into a shoe shop, where dress shoes were scarce but trainers and jelly shoes were abundant. The Converses were black and white, with white stitches on the side and too-long shoelaces. They got muddy easily. They looked common and plain, no flair about them at all. And yet, Draco enjoyed them. They were only _shoes, _but he felt like a hidden part of himself was being expressed through them -- something that said he was slowly getting over the habitual prejudice against anything non-magical. His father disliked the shoes, Draco could tell, but he didn't say anything, probably because he had run out of things to say. It was something Draco had gotten used to over the past year. In a way, he was grateful; at least they didn't fight like they used to after the war ended, when Draco wanted to move out of his parent's overly-spacious, haunting manor and get his own place in the city.

Lucius loved his son very much, but he just wasn't quite sure how to show it anymore.

Draco tapped the ground with his shoes, the laces halfway immersed in a nearby puddle.

**iv.**

Ron's not sure about this, not quite certain how to approach the situation. Draco is sitting outside on the balcony of his office, quiet tears streaming down his pale, pointed face. Ron blinks once, twice, three times, and breathes in and out. He's always been awkward about soothing people's sorrow, and he's sure Draco is no exception.

He braves it anyway, and opens the sliding door to the outside, where Draco is hunched over in a lawn chair, his shoulders stiff and his eyes closed with his thin hands covering the lower half of his face. Ron's almost through the door when Draco looks up, his bloodshot eyes weary and creased.

"Oh, it's you," Draco muttered, rubbing at his eyes and face hurriedly. "What is it?"

Ron's mouth opened and closed, and for a moment he looked like an overgrown fish before he found his voice.

"Is...is everything okay?"

Draco looked at him, his eyes boring into Ron's, and he gave a weak, watery smile.

"No," he half-whispered. "Not in the slightest."

Hands shaking, Draco looks down at the ground and Ron notices that he's wearing Muggle shoes with his black slacks, something Ron hasn't seen before. But he's seeing a totally different side of Draco altogether at this very moment -- one reflecting pain rather than arrogance. _True_, _unsaturated_ pain, and Ron wasn't so sadistic that he was reveling in it, but he felt empathy for the man. He felt like he could be close.

And close was all he ever wanted to be, truth be told.

Ron knelt down next to Draco and looked up into his face, his clear blue eyes reflected in Draco's grey ones. The effect was something like a mottled cerulean, and Ron found it quite beautiful to look at. He found himself staring at Draco a lot longer than he intended, and he smiled warmly. Draco stared at him, his mouth halfway open in an expression of surprise.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Draco stared at the redhaired man, slightly confused. They were -- well, used to be -- enemies. They hated each other's guts. They wanted to tear each other down, once upon a time. And now?...well, now was just. Different. And while Draco generally didn't enjoy change, he found himself comfortable in this situation -- but that _always _happened now, didn't it? He was always comfortable around Ron, always friendly, always...

Always genuinely _human_, he supposed.

"Draco?"

Draco jerked out of his fleeting reverie and looked at Ron, tutting inwardly at his messy bangs that hung in his face. Unconsciously, he reached out and swept them aside with both hands, and found himself keeping his palms on Ron's face.

It had been six months. Six lengthy months, and they'd been visiting each other's flats frequently, always having dinner and still always talking, sometimes until dawn. They hadn't started in on the hugs until March, and now it was June, and the sticky summer air was surprisingly absent today as gray rainclouds hovered precariously over London, threatening to pour rain any second. Draco looked up into the sky, then back down at Ron, and didn't bother to think or to speak before he dipped his head down and placed his lips upon Ron's, the warmth spreading through his own mouth and settling around his cheeks and even slowly making its way down and around his throat. Something like completion reverberated gently within him, and that feeling swelled when Ron responded quickly, holding onto Draco's neck and cheeks, same as Draco was doing with him.

The first drops pattered down on the balcony railing, and in a minute the entirety of London was becoming drenched. The two men didn't mind; they barely noticed at all.

**v. **

The sky is tinged pink, and it's four a.m.

He looks at his lover, thinks of how they once hated each other. Ron is amased at how far they've come, how much they've grown. He thought they'd never get over hating each other, and he found it odd that one day in the lunchroom changed almost everything.

_Almost _is the key term -- Draco still has problems with himself, still feels empty, still feels alone. Ron tries so hard to remedy this, but the final word is that Draco will most likely always have issues with his life, and Draco feels stupid whenever he experiences any negative or depressing thoughts; it wasn't as though he actually _lost _anyone in the Wizarding war. He saw people die, saw blood being spilt, but he didn't spill any of it or kill anyone in the castle.

His soul still shook at the thought of it all, though.

Ron holds him close, afraid to let go. He runs his hands through Draco's hair. He presses a kiss to his closed eyelids, which flutter at the gentle press of his lips. Draco moves a little underneath his embrace, then he shuffles his face into Ron's neck, curling closer to him.

Draco is dreaming of better things, of love, of self-forgiveness. He finds himself slightly happier nowadays. Ron doesn't know it, but he is so, _so _grateful for him, for getting to know him, for receiving a reminder that he is still appreciated, still lovable.

Draco looks in the mirror even more nowadays, and smiles at what he sees. The porcelain doll has gained new skin, and its eyes are clear and the crack has healed. His face is kinder. His mannerisms are gentler. He has reason to feel, to hope.

The heart is now strong.


End file.
